


Tending To

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alan is a do-it-yourself kinda guy, Eric POV, Eric Slingby: culinary genius, Eric Slingby: interior decorator, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Meta, Pre-Canon, genfic, obnoxious flower metaphors, reaper meta, this is some depressing shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:16:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Alan takes a sick day, Eric comes armed with tulips and denial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tending To

**Author's Note:**

> So this literally came out of nowhere, but one thing that’s always fascinated me is the process of Eric getting used to Alan’s illness, especially since it’s so unusual. And in my head canon, our boy Eric is really fond of denial and not so good with TEH EMOSHUNZ. So this is a slice of life fic about what it might be like when Eric first really registers that Alan is gravely ill. Also, meta abound.

It’s the first day that Alan’s called out.

Illness is something that occasionally happens to all reapers: injury on the job, a bit of flu. It’s more of an inconvenience than a true threat, though.

Eric knew it was coming eventually, but it’s been easy to put it out of his mind, because Alan has seemed perfectly fine.

He’s Alan, after all; his work ethic is unparalleled, and his record is nearly perfect. The only blemish on it is the first day he collapsed – the day Alan found out about the Thorns – and missed a reap. 

Eric had to go back after helping Alan to the infirmary and collect the record. It had made quite a mess, though thankfully it was on the outskirts of London. And after finding out the reason for the delay, Will hadn’t made much of a fuss since it had been taken care of, if not a bit tardily.

That had been a year ago.

Today is an ordinary day in the living world, though. It’s lovely and temperate; birds are chirping and green leaves have burst from formerly stark tree branches. 

Eric’s last reap of the day is at a park, though it’s only noontime, just before dinner hour, since he took a half-day.

Will hadn’t given him too much of a problem, since the last request for time off that Eric put in was nearly two decades ago. (He prefers to keep busy.)

The reap is simple, the clean type that Alan likes, to the point and without drama. In fact, Alan’s reaps are notably dull at this point, lest he take up more time off for his illness.

Eric tips his head back and closes his eyes, his face to the sun. It was Alan that had first pointed out the phenomenon of how plants move slowly, but steadily, toward the sun for their nourishment.

He had set a tulip on Eric’s window sill in his office; the flowers had barely begun to open, and they were bent toward a dark corner. Sure enough, within a few days, they had opened fully and were practically pressing themselves against the window, as if they planning a grand escape.

Eric’s been around long enough that he had stopped believing there were things about the world that had escaped his attention; Alan proved him wrong, in many ways.

He opens his eyes and straightens, stretching his arms and nonchalantly taking a quick look around, before bending to pick a few tulips from the edging of the park.

It seems almost funny, that he has no qualms with taking a soul, but would prefer not to draw a rebuke for nicking a few flowers from a garden. Never mind, though... he’s a grim reaper, after all. He collects souls; he doesn’t steal them.

He returns to the Dispatch, checks his scythe in (the General Affairs girls immediately eye the small bouquet of red tulips, raising eyebrows and giving cheeky smiles), and locks up his office for the day.

He’s pleased to make it out unscathed by anyone else who might be interested enough in his absence or the flowers he’s holding to stop him and meddle.

Eric’s only been to Alan’s flat a few times. Whenever they hang around together – which is often – they usually do so at Eric’s, since Alan now lives in the equivalent of glorified student housing, only with a shabby sitting room, small bedroom and kitchen, all covered in peeling, awful wallpaper.

Normally, reapers are given the choicest housing once making senior, but Alan had opted to retire his privileges of senior status before being forcibly ordered to move, and make way for those that aren’t dying, and—

Eric forces himself to laugh instead of think as he looks down at the tulips; he’s a git, with his stupidly sentimental gift. But he doesn’t mind. Not where Alan’s concerned.

He stares hard at the red hue of the flowers as he walks, tries to lose himself in it, tries to smell only the scent of spring folded there in the petals. He tries to stop his throat from tightening, his eyes from stinging, tries with all of his might not to throw the flowers on the ground and grind them into the street with the fury of hell behind him, just to spite everything; and then hope and beg for someone to do the same to him out of mercy.

Instead, Eric uses all of his might to loosen his grip around the fragile stems, and shoots a friendly, flirtatious grin at a young woman walking toward him he recognizes from reception. She returns the smile as she passes, raising an eyebrow at the tulips before giving him a wink.

He pretends he’s on his way to see some pretty girl, to take some lovely young lass out for a drink and a shag. It just makes it a bit easier.

Alan’s front door is closed, and Eric is surprised, since he often keeps it open on the occasional warm evening, especially if he’s cooking. 

Eric knocks once, twice; no one comes. He might be asleep.

The Thorns are as much a folktale to Eric as they always were, since the only time he’s seen Alan fall victim to them was that first day. He doesn’t know what to expect, but when Alan finally opens the door, he doesn’t even know what to _say_.

Alan is wearing pajamas (Eric’s never even seen Alan in anything except a suit), and his complexion is ashen. He has dark circles under his eyes, and as soon as he sees Eric, he shrinks back in embarrassment, shutting the door halfway.

“Alan,” Eric says softly, the name escaping his mouth like an exhaled breath.

He knows it sounds like pity, but it’s not; it’s concern.

Alan obviously thinks it sounds _exactly_ like pity though, because he immediately frowns and looks down at the floor.

“Aren’t you meant to be in the living world?” Alan asks quietly, his voice carefully controlled and professional.

“I took half the day off.”

Alan tips his face up in surprise to meet Eric’s eyes.

“Why?”

“I needed a vacation. Here.”

He pushes the flowers into Alan’s hands and then shoves his own in his pockets.

Alan just stares at him, and for the first time that Eric can ever remember, he actually looks unsure of what to say.

“Have you eaten?” Eric asks, taking a few steps forward and pushing the door open fully. Alan steps out of the way without argument, his eyes wide.

“I... No, not yet...”

“Right,” Eric replies, and invites himself in.

Alan cocks his head to the side with a confused expression, but slowly closes the door behind Eric when it’s obvious he intends to stay.

“Do you have eggs?”

“I... think so?”

“Don’t those need water?”

“Yes, I suppose. I mean... well, yes,” Alan stutters, following Eric as he purposefully strides into the small kitchen.

Alan stares openly as Eric rattles around for a skillet, but he does fetch a vase absently for the tulips.

“You didn’t have to—” Alan starts.

“Eggs. They’re good for you. Do you want two or three?”

Alan hesitates, but then says softly, “I’m sorry, Eric. I’m just not very hungry right now. But thank you...” 

Eric grips the skillet tightly; he’s relieved he doesn’t have to loosen his grip this time.

“How about tea?”

Alan opens his mouth, and Eric can already tell he’s going to say no; but when their eyes meet, Alan’s mouth closes again. He studies Eric, and after a moment, accepts the offer.

Eric fills the kettle with water and puts it on the stove, takes a breath, and turns to face Alan again.

“Well,” he says, crossing his arms and forcing himself to smile, “you missed Ronald finally getting a harsh tongue lashing from half of General today.”

The tension in Alan’s face eases, and he smiles faintly.

“What happened?”

“Well...”

Halfway through the story, Alan is laughing, and some color has returned to his cheeks; by the end, Eric is laughing too, and suddenly, things seem normal again.

Never mind that Alan is ill enough to call out, and that Eric just showed up, unannounced at his door, with a bouquet of bloody flowers.

The kettle starts to whistle, and Eric is still grinning as he turns away to take it off the burner. Alan is busy fetching water for the vase, and then suddenly there’s a crash.

Eric whirls around in surprise, and then all he sees is blood, a smashed crystal vase, and tulips scattered over the floor. Alan is clutching his chest with one hand and doubled over, and the other has a nasty slice right through his palm.

Eric doesn’t even know what to do for a moment, feeling frozen in place, as if the scene in front of him is a staged daguerreotype or some theatrical farce.

He snaps out of his shock when Alan’s knees get the same treatment as his palm as he crumples onto the floor, right in the center of the jagged glass.

“I’ll be... all right,” he gasps, trying to catch his breath. But then his body seizes again, and he lets out a distressed sound that gets caught in his throat.

Eric’s only seen pain like this in one place: the living world, during messy reaps.

“Don’t move,” Eric commands calmly despite his turbulent emotions, and bends to help Alan up and away from the glass.

He doesn’t know what to think when Alan immediately slumps against him, still clutching his chest; but his body seems to intuitively know what to do, as one of his arms wraps around Alan’s shoulders, and he helps him into the bedroom.

Alan’s started to regain his breath as he sits down on the bed.

Normally, his hand would have already healed by now; any blood on the ground would have evaporated like steam, as if it never existed. Immortality is excellent for housekeeping.

But Alan’s hand has not healed, and his knees are still bleeding through the cloth of the pajamas.

Suddenly, it’s real. This is happening. Alan is bleeding, as red as tulip petals; as susceptible to death as the very garden Eric took them from.

Eric pulls the blanket from the end of the bed that’s (unsurprisingly) folded with painstaking neatness and wraps it around Alan’s hand.

“There are bandages in the loo,” Alan whispers as the episode finally passes.

Bandages. What reaper has _bandages?_

Oh, right. Alan does. Because Alan is sick.

Eric just nods and stands up quickly, walking out of the bedroom to rifle around the bathroom for supplies. There’s a small cupboard, and he finds them quickly enough, along with other first aid supplies. 

He returns prepared, with a basin of warm water, a small cotton towel, and the bandages.

Alan’s eyes widen, and his face goes absolutely crimson.

“You don’t have to—”

“Well, it’s not as if you’re... able to, yeah?” Eric retorts gruffly. He regrets the tone when Alan hangs his head and looks away.

“I still heal faster than a human,” he says softly, as Eric gingerly unwraps his hand from the blanket, “it just takes longer.”

“Nothin’ more than a scrape,” Eric replies with a shrug.

It is definitely more than a scrape; the glass cut right through Alan’s palm, and somewhat deeply.

“Do you need... what is that they call it?” he asks, cocking his head to the side.

Alan looks up to meet his eyes, and finally, he gives a little smile with just the corner of his mouth. Eric’s heart clenches, and his throat tightens again; he listens attentively for Alan’s response and ignores the unwelcome sensations.

“Stitches? No, I’m not to that point yet. Although I suppose I should learn... for...” Alan’s voice catches, and Eric looks down.

“Not so bad,” he says, as he takes Alan’s hand in his own. “Looks worse than it is.”

Alan just shrugs, but he stays quiet as Eric gently wipes away the blood with warm water, being very careful not to hurt him.

“You’ve been patching yourself up?” Eric asks quietly as he starts to wrap the bandage soundly around Alan’s hand. “When this happens?”

“I’m careful,” Alan says simply. But when Eric’s eyes immediately stray to a fading cut on his forearm that he’d suffered from a volatile cinematic record the week before, Alan’s face colors slightly, and he moves his arm to his side where it’s out of Eric’s line of vision.

“You should’ve told me.”

It’s so simple – an invitation for assistance, a request for more disclosure, an offer of care.

The problem is that the only person who’s more crap at accepting help than Eric, is Alan.

Alan pulls away completely now, since Eric’s done bandaging his hand, and he wraps both arms around himself defensively.

“Why are you even here?” he asks in a quiet, almost angry voice. “I didn’t want anyone to see me like this.”

“Your knees are still bleeding.”

“I don’t bloody well care.”

“Well, you bloody well should, because you’re bloody.”

Alan’s mouth snaps shut, and their eyes meet finally.

“Did you just make a pun?”

“If I say yes, will you stop acting like a git?” Eric retorts, matching Alan frown for frown.

Alan is staring at him openly now, and Eric just stares back.

“Well, will you?” he asks again.

“I...” Alan replies uncertainly, but then he sets his jaw again in that stubborn expression Eric knows _all_ too well. “I can do it myself.”

“You asked me why I’m here?” Eric blurts out abruptly. “Because I want to be.”

“You didn’t have to be here, though,” Alan says softly. “I didn’t want you to see me this way, because I don’t want to be remembered this way.”

“No one is going to remember you, Humphries,” Eric growls, standing and turning away sharply, both fists clenched. “You’re not _going_ anywhere.”

Alan sighs, and Eric lets out a suspiciously choked breath.

“Now shut it,” Eric says quietly, his back to Alan, “and let me tend to your sodding knees.”

When he turns around, Alan is looking at him, studying him really.

“Don’t you mean my bloody knees?” he asks softly.

Eric rolls his eyes and snorts; he doesn’t quite end up near Alan’s knees though, as he sits down on the bed and wraps his arms around Alan’s shoulders.

Alan doesn’t argue now. He turns in toward Eric, accepting the embrace, and hides his face against Eric’s shoulder.

It’s the first time they’ve ever touched each other for more than a handshake or an accidental brush in the hallway, all moments that Eric remembers with conspicuous accuracy.

“Right, then,” he says, letting Alan stay where he is, “a good cup of tea will help you get sorted.”

Alan just nods, and finally draws away. 

Without further argument, he pulls the legs of his pajama bottoms up above his knees, and Eric kneels in front of him to wipe away the blood and tend to him properly.

“I’ll change and meet you in the kitchen,” he says softly.

Eric tries to smile.

“Brilliant,” he replies. “I’ll put the kettle back on.”

The door clicks shut softly behind him as he walks back down the short hallway to the kitchen. It too has peeling wallpaper, and Eric feels very resentful of it suddenly.

Upper management has thrown Alan two contradictory things: a bone, and out on his arse.

He’s still on active duty (Eric has a feeling that Will downplayed his illness to the powers that be), but it’s only a matter of time until he can’t reap anymore. Or so the prognosis went, as Alan had clinically relayed it to Eric with the same banal tone he used while discussing reaping reports.

And now here he is – London Dispatch’s star recruit, the Triple A student from Birmingham assigned to the most sought after division in England – bandaged and lost in a world of peeling wallpaper and tiny rooms.

Eric grits his teeth as he puts the kettle back on, staring spitefully out the small window; he can see the library standing prominently in the distance. At least the view isn’t terrible.

A piece of glass crunches under his shoe, and he’s startled out of his daze. Best clean that up before Alan comes back; otherwise, he’ll insist on doing it himself, attack or none.

Eric gathers up the tulips first; somehow, shockingly, they’ve survived intact, if not a bit wilted.

The remains of the vase end up in the bin, and finally, Eric hears soft footsteps stop in the doorway.

“Oh no,” Alan says in dismay, striding over to where Eric’s laid the flowers, “they’re dying. Let me get another vase.”

This time, Alan doesn’t falter; he retrieves another vase (the fact that Alan has more than one flower vase doesn’t surprise Eric in the least) and fills it with water.

Eric watches curiously as he reaches for the tea tin (he knows Alan prefers peppermint over Darjeeling, the only two choices available) as Alan uses a knife to cut off the ends of the stems.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Alan turns his head, almost startled since he’s so intent on what he’s doing.

“Well,” he explains, his voice suddenly shy, “if you cut off the stems at an angle, it lets them live a bit longer.”

Eric nods in understanding, and Alan bites his lip, adding very quietly, “And they’re lovely. Thank you.”

“Place could do with some brightening,” Eric blurts out, and then cringes internally at the crass words. “I mean... well, I don’t... that is...”

“I know it’s frightfully ugly,” Alan says with a shrug, looking completely placid. “But... well, I’m ill.”

Reapers, and particularly those on high that manage them, are not known for their charity for any weak links in the chain. It’s almost ironic that “survival of the fittest” is a human expression.

“That doesn’t matter,” Eric replies, frowning. “You can have my bloody flat for all I care.”

Alan’s eyebrows raise, and then he gives a small, unmistakably melancholy smile.

“Cheers, Eric. I appreciate that, but I’m fine here.”

“Do you want me to change the wallpaper?”

_“Eric.”_

“I will.”

“That’s not necessary,” Alan says calmly, and then points to the vase of tulips to change the subject. “There. They look brilliant.”

The tulips have already started to perk up a bit, and Alan puts them back on the window sill in the light, bending in toward the kitchen.

“They’ll start to bend in the other direction and straighten up eventually,” Alan says, turning to face Eric with a smile. “With those there, I don’t give a toss about ugly wallpaper.”

Eric just sighs and hands Alan the steaming cup of peppermint tea. He takes it with his unbandaged hand and sits down at the table; there’s only one chair, so Eric stands.

They remain in silence as Alan takes a sip of his tea and lets out a happy sigh.

“Come to mine for dinner?” Eric asks softly.

Alan just nods, as if he knew the request was coming. He probably did. Alan usually ends up at Eric’s for dinner, and always had, even before he contracted the Thorns.

Eric hesitates, but then settles his hand on Alan’s shoulder.

“Tulips look nice,” he says softly. 

Alan just nods, and brings his bandaged hand up to rest it over Eric’s.

“They always find the light,” he replies.


End file.
